The Lion's Beast
by Jina E. Evergeen
Summary: "Their scales are hard, my lord, sturdy like a northern shield and ripe like Dornish grapes. Their eyes bubble with a crimson heat, and you can smell the stench of war on their blazing breath." This is the story of the three Lannister heirs, each gaining a dragon of their own.
1. Jaime I

'

**The Lion's Beast**

**By Jina E. Evergreen**

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Chapter I

**Three Shades of Gold**

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Jaime

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Jaime Lannister climbed the serpentine of stairs with the expertise of a wild cat. Though when he reached the landing of the Hand's Tower, he regretted not taking his time getting there. They had informed him that this was where he'd find the coil of spite and tenebrous intentions that his sister had become, and he had hoped the words would somehow crawl their way into his wrecked mind as he made his way up. They didn't.

He stepped into the light of day cautiously. Out in the open, dawn was blooming in the shades of crimson blood and heated platinum. Jaime's eyes narrowed instinctively as the arrows of light teased his orbs. Through the veil of his long eyelashes, he discerned a blurred silhouette standing tall, dark curves against the wakening horizon.

Jaime pushed back the lump in his throat and swiftly paced to his sister's side. She had leaned on the stone ledge, grassy eyes wandering over the harbor and the sea beyond. The western winds were entangled in her golden mane and her silken gown swayed intact with the morning breeze. The green fabric clung to her form, bluntly bolding the complex meander of her body. She was a beautiful creature, his Cersei.

He stood next to her, leaning his back on the cold parapet. She didn't dignify him with a glance, but her look was so distant and dreamy that Jaime wondered if she was even aware of his presence. When they were children, she had told him of how she liked to imagine sailing off on one of Lannistport's foreigner ships and embarking on adventures only meant for the bravest of men. Right now, she was probably picturing their baby brother setting off on a journey of his own**—** to the sandy depths of the turbid waters below.

Jaime silently moved closer to his sister, eyes fixed on the endless sky. The sun was slowly rising in a steam of red and orange.

"A sublime dawn, is it not?" Jaime commented softly.

Cersei crossed her arms. "If the gods meant it to be delightsome, they would not have breathed the shades of war into it."

He didn't argue, and not only because he agreed, but also because arguing with Cersei had proven to be a futile effort. And Jaime only wasted futile effort on matters of importance.

"Tyrion's trial converted into quite the spectacle," he began. He saw his sister stiffen at the mention of their dwarfish brother, but decided not to notice. "I must say," he carried on rosily, "although it all went downhill towards the end, our brother does know how to chain the crowd's attention."

Jaime attempted a grin, but the smile never reached his eyes, and Cersei only took a step away. "The little miscreant will get what he deserves," she hissed, "Ser Gregor will see to it."

She no longer tried to conceal her burning hatred for their brother, Jaime perceived. It saddened him, how blind his sister was. And it angered him that she had deliberately chosen to tie the blindfold over her eyes. She was not unable to see the truth, but for some reason that was yet beyond him, she fiercely fought not to spot it.

"Cersei," he started once more, her name spilling gently out of his mouth, just like when he'd whisper it on one of their golden nights. He sought to capture her hand in his, but she pulled away as if he'd sting her. Jaime let his open palm wither in the air and then loll slack at his side. As he watched his sister's face crumple in loath, his chest weighed down with misery. Why were the gods trying to pull from his grasp the one thing he thought he'd have forever?

"There is still time to rethink this," he said, gathering the last shreds of stoicism that he had. "Drop the charges and let the one truly responsible for Joffrey's murder be discovered. Tyrion is innocent. His death would be no justice**—**"

And Cersei laughed. A sharp, somber laughter that ruptured beastly. "Tyrion's _death,_" she more growled than articulated, "will be the greatest _justice_ that this rotten court could ever dream of having."

Jaime was horrified. Horrified that his brother would be executed, horrified that his sister would become a stranger, captive of her own demons. Horrified he might end up torn to scraps between the two. What had happened to the noble Lannister offspring? _The cripple, the dwarf and the mother of madness. _He couldn't remember the last time Tyrion had been more right. But the cripple was the Lord-Commander, the dwarf was the former Hand, and the mother of madness was the Queen herself. The Seven Kingdoms were as damned as the ones ruling them, Jaime concluded bitterly.

"Why is that, sister?"

Cersei shot him a glare. "Why is what?"

"Why is his death justice?"

"He murdered his king—"**  
**

"And so did I."

The Queen was silent for a moment. "This is different."

"How is it different? The Mad King could not tell underling and slave apart, and only did as he pleased. Was Joffrey any different?"

Cersei hit him. And it wasn't an open-palmed slap like the ones he was used to. She slammed her clutched fist straight into his jaw, with more force and proficiency than he had expected. The blow nearly swept him off his feet and he staggered backwards, hand flailing to grab onto something. He seized the rail and managed to keep his balance. His golden hand went to cup his throbbing cheek, and he was startled to see the scarlet snakes of blood trail down the metal palm. Jaime looked at his sister, whose face was a mixture of grudge and wonderment. She observed her mitt in dismay, clearly no less surprised than her brother to be able to deliver such severe damage. Her stern look soon went back to him, and Jaime frowned as her eyes bore holes into his skull.

"You shall not talk like that about our son," Cersei snarled, and Jaime could bet his head she was ready to strike him again. _Our son..._ All of a sudden, he remembered Tommen's cries as Joffrey plunged a knife into his favorite catling. He remembered Sansa Stark's muffled whimpers whenever the king walked past her. And he remembered Tyrion's face as he went to see him in that nightmarish dungeon.

"He was no son of mine."

And there it was, the hurt in his sister's eyes. It swam in her orbs, wriggled behind the green curtain of her irises, writhed until it turned into something else.

"Of course he was no son of yours," she said coldly. "Just like you were no husband of mine. You may have fathered him, but you were no father to him. Not even once."

Her words cut deep and hurt more than her whack. Everything that had ever gone down between them could be erased in a puff of anger, and it scared the hells out of him. There was nothing that their love had left behind. Nothing but three children with no father.

Jaime was actually glad his father happened to come by, because he had completely run out of things to say.

Tywin Lannister waited at the stairs. He said nothing, allowing his children to take notice of him instead. Jaime bowed his head, declaring respect. Seeing him do so, Cersei turned around to spot their father. The elder lion's eyes dances over his son, lingering on his blood-stained face, and then skimmed over to his daughter, who was still holding her wrist. Still, he broke no words. Though their father had never really needed words to speak his disapproval.

Cersei's reverence was swift, elegant and flawless, and it made Jaime's bow look like a pathetic excuse for courtesy. "Father," she greeted humbly.

"Come along," Tywin said plainly, and Jaime wasn't sure as to which one of them he was addressing.

"The Small Council does not assemble before noon," Cersei pointed out. "What is it?"

"A matter concerning you two. Now come along."

He turned around on his heels and disappeared down the twisted staircase, apparently convinced that his children would be quick to follow. Sometimes Jaime let himself slip into a daydream, one in which he actually said 'no' to one of his father's biddings. Those 'biddings' that were in fact commands, simply coated in the mantles of requests. Obviously lacking the rebellious spirit of her brother, the shamelessly perfect Cersei gathered her skirts and followed her father in a swish of silk. _Like a good little sheep_, Jaime thought. _Little does the righteous pastor know, it was one of his golden sheep that made the other three bastard lambs._

Gone reluctant for no reason, Jaime slouched after his relatives. The descent of the stairs seemed to drag out longer than the ascent. Jaime had always found something hypnotic in the way stairs crawled beneath his feet. Sometimes he got the feeling that they were the ones moving and not him. He focused on the way Cersei's curls swayed back and forth as she walked. Somewhere ahead, he heard his father's steps, though Cersei's body screened him form view.

Instead of going to the Hand's main apartments, their father led them to his personal chambers. _Even walls don't dare eavesdropping in Tywin Lannister's abode. _Jaime almost laughed at how ridiculously authoritative his father was. The guard present opened the heavy wooden door and Tywin went in, followed by Cersei. Just as Jaime was about to enter, he heard his sister squeal wildly form inside the room. He hurried in, but he bumped into Cersei's back as she was standing at the entrance, fists clutched at her sides. Tywin was just sinking in a chair, face as unreadable as a face could get.

"Why is this creature here?" Cersei shrieked.

It was then that Jaime set his eyes on Tyrion, who was unabashedly chewing something in the far corner of the chamber. Jaime often times wondered how his brother managed to look jolly and bitter at the same time. _Must be the distorted face._

"Hello, sweet family," Tyrion chirped, but there was neither joy nor heart in his voice.

"Father," Cersei spat, "why has_ this_ been brought here?" She sounded so disgusted that Jaime thought she might vomit.

"Easy, sister," Tyrion chuckled. "We don't want any wrinkles creeping on that pretty face, now, do we?"

"You dare not talk to me, you little skunk. Just you wait until Ser Gregor chops off that hideous head of yours. I shall host a feast for Tommen's coronation and have it served for supper."

"Yes, about that… I wouldn't dispatch the invitations yet if I were you."

Cersei's eyes skittered over to their father. "Has the imp lost wit down in his cell?"

"Me? No. Though I couldn't state the same for Prince Oberyn, who was rather eager to name himself my champion in the imminent combat." Cersei breathed in sharply through her gritted teeth, and Jaime felt a smile burst into blossom on his lips. Just when he thought the clever little fellow had offered any possible kind of surprises.

"I suppose even the Martells can't resist your lush charms, brother," Jaime said, and the Lannister brothers both grinned. Cersei and Tywin didn't grin.

"I'd like to know how you tricked the Prince into this," the Queen barked.

"Ah, so many tricks and plot and schemes… Why do you always presume me to be involved, sweet sister? True, I've had my fair share of walking on the wild side, but it is usually you who stands in the center of the most intriguing of cabals. A fine quality, indeed, yet one of your many that I don't happen to share."

"You are surely not going to allow this, father..."

Tywin's voice cut through the air like Valyrian steel. "It doesn't matter who your brother's champion is. This entire combat should no longer be your concern, since**—**"

"And what should be my concern," Cersei had the audacity to interrupt, "if not the trial against my son's assassinator?"

"Oh, just wait," Tyrion hummed. "It gets _really_ good." By his tone, however, Jaime figured it was in fact going to get_ really_ bad.

"I need not hear another word," Cersei declared and headed for the exit, pushing Jaime out of her way. "I shall go and inform Ser Gregor of his opponent's identity."

"I sent Sir Gregor Clegane away," Tywin said.

Cersei froze in her tracks. When she turned, her face was an embroidery of dread and recoil. "I don't believe I heard correctly, father," she fizzled, her voice low and menacing. "Do you care to repeat?"

"I sent Ser Gregor Clegane away," Tywin commonly ingeminated. "If you had been smarter than to interrupt me, you would have been told of everything directly."

Cersei's face accepted the mask of red fury and her fists shook dangerously at her sides. Jaime feared his sister might actually murder their father then and there, was he standing any closer. "On what ground and by what right have you sent away my champion, the man who was meant to defend my honor, the honor of your late grandson and that of our house?"

"No need to be so formal, now," Tyrion chimed in.

"Be quiet," Tywin cut him off and turned to his daughter. "I had the feeling you might trespass my command to withdraw from this entire fracas and have the man engage in battle, so I commanded him to leave the capitol."

Jaime was confused. Was their father intimidating that there would be no trial by combat? If so, what had led to the decision? Had Tyrion's fate already been sealed?

"Well that's just wonderful news, father," Cersei squawked mockingly. "Who am I expected to choose instead of Ser Gregor?"

"It doesn't matter. There will be no trial."

"What do you mean?" Jaime asked before Cersei got the chance to open her mouth.

"I, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King, presently proclaim my son Tyrion Lannister innocent of all the crimes he's been accused of."

Everyone was quiet for a moment. Jaime stood and basked in a mixture of relief and suspicion. His brother had been saved. How? Why? By whom? The string of questions went unroken to the ends of infinity.

Naturally, Cersei was the one who broke the blissful silence. "What is the meaning of this? What lies has the little beast spewed?"

"Due to recently established circumstances, we cannot have Tyrion executed," Tywin explained.

"What circumstances?" Jaime asked, eyebrows interlocking in a frown.

"You better sit down, brother," Tyrion advised. "We don't want you to faint hearing all about it. I'd recommend the same for our sister, but I fear it might be a little late for that."

Jaime looked at Cersei. Indeed, color had drained from her face, and she had gone paler than the crescent. Her face resembled wax, white and seemingly ready to peel off. Jaime immediately went to wrap his arms around her shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"It can still happen," Cersei breathed. "If he doesn't die, it can still come true…"

Jaime had no idea what she was talking about, and he didn't think she knew either. From the corner of his eye, he saw both Tyrion and Tywin regarding them with cautious anxiety. When Jaime shook her gently, Cersei looked at him like he was the first thing she laid her eyes upon in this world. Abruptly, she flinched and brushed him off with a trembling hand. Jaime backed away, startled.

When Cersei looked at him, her emerald eyes were cold and hostile. "I don't need your help."

_But you do, sweet sister. You need it more than ever. _

He said nothing.

"Well then," Tyrion started, clearing his throat. "Where to begin?"

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**I don't own Game of Thrones and we all know it, but I need to remind it to myself from time to time as not to get too cocky. I also like underlining and bolding things. Yeah. The sheer excuse I write this is so I can style my text against all reason and logic. I hope you don't mind. Anyway, I wish you an enjoyable time with the chapters to come, and I do admit I salvage the faintest remnants of hope that you'll review. **


	2. Tyrion I

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Chapter II

**Tarnal Breath**

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Tyrion

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_The previous day_

The dungeon was like the inside of a giant's stomach— fusty, damp and full of rotten meat. It sickened Tyrion to think that he was actually a piece of that meat, just waiting to be chewed. He even beseemed in terms of stench. After having spent so many blackish days amidst the company of shit and piss and body scrapings, it was only natural he'd imbibe the smell.

The day they moved him to another cell was the day he got to appreciate all the filth and grime of his former dwelling, and miss it dearly. The new pit was more an abyss than a cell. It was suited somewhere beneath the others, which was, by itself, impressing. The entire chain of underground prisons was a deed of the Targaryens. They had thrust their shovels so deep into the earthly layers that Tyrion feared he might find himself sitting on the soft membrane of the earth's core.

"They need your cell for other bastards," the guard escorting him murmured when Tyrion asked as to why they'd switch his cell a mere few days prior to the combat.

Of course, the place was overcrowded lately, seeing as everyone that Cersei didn't favor seemed to stand accused of complicity in Joffrey's murder. And what better way to clear up some space than throw the ones already dead into the jaws of these forsaken depths?

Tyrion barely managed to fit inside the pitch-black hole they named his current cell.

"Is it safe to put me here?" he questioned his silent warden. "We don't want the Kingslayer to die like a pig before a fitting justice is served upon him, now, do we?"

The voice of the man came harsh and throaty from underneath his richly ornamented helm. "They've never told us to put a creep in here before, so you'll tell me if it's safe, gnome."

The grid closed behind him in a zebra of air and iron. Tyrion scaled what little there was to scale of his cell, and he felt more like a hermit than a prisoner. The only light that blessed his eyes was the one pouring from a torch on the wall near the lamentable semblance of a staircase. The flame was jumping playfully in its wooden prison, but Tyrion doubted it would live to jump much longer.

"What am I supposed to do when I want to piss?" he squealed after the guard, who was already disappearing around the corner and up the filthy steps.

"Piss," the man barked and that was all Tyrion ever got to hear of him.

He looked around again, wondering just how much space a little man required to hang himself. You'd think that filling up a small room would make him feel big and strong and overwhelming, but no. It only made him feel like a tiny little dwarf locked up in a cell to fit his sizes. Even his wicked sister had once teased him about residing in paltry premises. But back then, he'd had an appropriate answer for it. Now he had nothing but silence in the wake of Cersei's foray.

Stuck between the hammer of his thoughts and the anvil of the narrow cell, Tyrion let his fingers slip under his ragged garments, right where his collarbone met his chest. He fumbled around the area until his misshapen digits closed around the object of their clumsy scouting. Something he had managed to keep hidden from the robust hands that stripped him of all his property before they dragged him to rot down here. The pendant wasn't anything of great value, really, just a trinket he had bought for Shae from a local merchant before he sent her away. Something had drawn him to the adornment, something in the way the foreign vendor had breathed _for your beloved_ from underneath his darksome hood. He never got the chance to give it to Shae, but he had decided to keep it for himself, merely as a reminder of how loving a whore could fuck you, and not only in a good way.

Although he couldn't see it underneath the layer of his clothing, Tyrion had memorized each and every curve and his fingers trailed capably along the embossed surface. They followed the relief of the printed lion, then the virgin snuggled in his luxuriant mane. He drew it out from underneath his shirt and tumbled it in his porky fingers. The medallion was made of something that resembled bronze in weigh and color. The eyes of the lion's paramour alone glistered an alluring red.

The proud lion and his noble lady.

A feral laughter escaped from his scarred throat. He, the lion, was a hideous dwarf that stood accused of the direst of crimes, and his sweetheart, his love, his maiden, was in fact the furthest thing from virgin, and from pure. The screwed lion and his tinsel whore. That was more like it.

Tyrion felt the lump in his throat push its way up, intending to evolve in either tears or vomit. His unshapely fingers tugged at the pendant roughly, tearing it from its chainlet. He tossed it away with fierce embitterment, sending it to putrefy in the mud. The small den did not allow it to be hurled far away, but it was still better than to have it dangling around his neck, stifling him in every way possible. Tyrion might have been stupid enough to fall in love with a whore twice, but at least he wasn't so stupid as to believe the wench could love him back. Not after that little mockery of their time together Shae had staged at his trial.

He coiled as far away from the decoration and from thoughts of Shae as he possibly could. Which wasn't particularly far away, in both cases.

He didn't know how long he'd remained motionless, but he must have fallen asleep at some point, because the ghostly images of Tysha and Shae sneakily invaded his cell. They both smiled, each seductive in her own temptation. Tysha thread a tender palm through his golden curls, and Shae ran her fingers over his exposed chest. Their hands mixed together in a pile of gentle caresses and playful scratching. Tysha kissed his forehead, but Shae pushed her away teasingly, taking her place at his side and planting a kiss just under his chin. Tysha gripped Shae's hair and firmly pulled backwards, making the other whore squeal and laugh at the same time. She moved to restore her position near Tyrion, sealing her mouth to his. Just as Tyrion wrapped his arms around her, Shae dragged Tysha out of reach and pressed her lips against his, open-mouthed and shamelessly skillful.

It went on for quite a while, with Tyrion salvaging every delicious bit of it.

Gradually, the seemingly innocent fighting of the two harlots became less gamesome and more rabid. A rather wild smack from Tysha sent Shae in an angry roar. Tyrion opened his mouth to tell the two to make peace, but no sound came out to clothe his voice. Tysha yelped as Shae's nails dug into her throat and dragged down to her collarbone, leaving behind the red markings of their triumph. Tyrion attempted to stand up, only to discover that his legs, along with the rest of him, had not the palest hints of intention to do as commanded. He was left with no choice but to watch as his two beloved whores tore bloody shreds from one another. The sound of torn fabric echoed all around as Tysha ripped off Shae's ear savagely. They both screamed, pain and anger rippling through their cries.

One howled, then the other, the tune of their thrashing nearing animalistic grounds. Tyrion shouted voicelessly, wretched and aghast.

The nails of the disfigured females elongated into sharpened claws, their teeth transfigured into crusty fangs. In the heat of their battle, their images slowly blurred into nothingness, but their throaty growls remained to fill the air. Tyrion woke to a blackness, for the torch had burned out. For a moment there, he thought the dream had come to haunt him, for the low growls were vivid and suspiciously close in his ears.

Then he felt a husky breath creep up his side and he knew he wasn't dreaming anymore. The thing that breathed against his skin growled.

First, he thought of Cersei and her profound odor of fermented grapes. But his sister didn't growl; she hissed. Then he thought of lions and their fierce roars. Something coarse and placoid rubbed against his cheek, and the grisly breath danced cold as ice and hot as fire on his extended throat. The breath of lions didn't smell like ashes from the furnaces of hell.

Tyrion dared not so much as twitch. Cold sweat ran down his neck, dampening his bristled hair. Praying for his life with a devotion only a genuine sinner could muster, he cautiously extended a short, trembling hand to explore the curves of the unknown creature. The thing flinched, a wolfish howl erupting from its throat. It shifted position, but didn't pull away. Tyrion's palm traveled over what seemed to be the head. Rugged and hard. Whatever it was that shared his cell, it was big and reeked of demon.

Tyrion traced the raw skin until the beast's growls melted into noisy sighs. Swimming in the safety of the darkness, he let his senses guide him on. His hand was more steady now, more confident in its strokes. The flesh went softer under his fingers, and he groped it curiously. His hand slipped further down along the wight, down until it could go down no more. His palm ran over something hard and sleek that made him think of teeth, then something moist and warm and suspiciously writhing.

Suddenly, a viscous light exploded, and Tyrion flinched instantly, pupils soar. He tilted his head and his eyes cracked open to see a guard climbing down the stairs with a torch in hand. Tyrion narrowed his eyes. The flames were not greeted with a warm welcome. They were an intruder, conquers of his somber solace.

"Alright, dwarf, time for a meal," the watcher grumbled as he turned around the corner, his rough voice paining Tyrion's ears. "Though I wouldn't eat that pigwash if I were you..."

The moment the man's eyes fell on Tyrion's cell, he jumped and yelled like witless, flapping the torch about and cursing inarticulately. It was then that Tyrion felt the taste of his dream ooze on his tongue. He realized he had unknowingly extended a hand in his sleep, and turned to look at the inside of his cell.

When he saw it, he nearly sprang through the roof. He shouted and pulled away, swearing violently and shaking like leaf. He'd just stuck his hand inside the gaping jaw of a dragon.

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**Thank you for the kind reviews. Your comments really make me smile with certain pride. **


	3. Oberyn I

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Chapter III

**Child of Ashes**

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Oberyn

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The guard ran for the stairs like a frenzied stag, not caring to apologize for lubberly shoving Oberyn out of the way. The Prince shook his head. A Dornish woman would push harder than this lad. But then again, women did many things differently in the South. His daughters would yell and scratch and bleed their way to power; Cersei Lannister would flap her tongue to tame the art of speech, to breathe life to her ill desires. She'd flap her tongue for other things as well, if what he'd heard was true.

The guard scampered up the stairs, his entire armour rattling along. Why would a prison guard, small and shabby as he was, run like he was about to piss his pants? Oberyn pictured the Imp growling some hoarse threat from behind his iron bars, teeth barred, skew eyes glistering with malice. That would do it for most men.

He let the light of his torch guide him as he resumed his descend, unperturbed, steps light as feather and artful as dancing pins. His grip on the dagger up his sleeve got firmer, though. For minor confrontations he savoured his finest potions of indifference, but indifference did not necessarily equal negligence. His ears detected a sound crawling up from the bottom of the stairs. Muffled and muted, but a yelp all the same. Oberyn took the final few steps no more quickly than decency required and no less unheeding than his confidence demanded. He turned around the corner to face the new cell of Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf he had proclaimed he would bleed for on the stage of combat.

His eyes grasped what was unravelled a moment prior to his mind. Suck inside the chasm between perception and backwash, Oberyn remained as still as a forest beast that knew a deadly arrow came its way. An instant of silent contemplation. The dwarf had coiled like a worm, back pressed against the unyielding iron of his cage. A dark cloud was hanging over him, imminent as death itself. Although he'd never lain gaze upon such creature before, Oberyn's eyes knew a dragon when they witnessed one.

Underneath the sheath of mud and dust rippled the scarlet mantle of its skin. Scarlet husks. Hot breath. Burning eyes. Four rows of tangy teeth with rotten flesh between them. Oberyn scaled the dragon from the spikes on its skull to the sharpened arrow at the end of its tail. Deadly. With its strong claws it claimed the ground as its territory, its kingdom, its possession. The wings were huge and glorious, taut against the darkness. A round jewel that seemed to be made of bronze was dangling on a little chainlet from the dragon's jaws. The winged lizard advanced, claws digging in the ground like heavy maces.

Tyrion whimpered like a wounded dog. His back pushed hard against the bars, cloth peeling off along with skin. Oberyn lurked in the shadows with wolfish flecks dancing in his eyes. Something in the Imp's helplessness awakened memories of Elia, his sweet, flame-kissed sister. He had painted her death a thousand times on the paper of his mind, but whatever he did, he always ended up with the same picture— her gentle cries of desperation, and the ruthless growling of the shadow towering above her.

He'd die to see that shadow drown in seas of ripped entrails.

Oberyn's blood boiled instantly. He might not have had his sister's shadow yet, but, by all the gods he knew, he would disentangle a wretched impish soul from the chains of death.

That was when his mind and body liaised once again. With a swiftness mastered by few, he revolved the burning torch around the axis of his hand. The flaky thing took notice of his presence, as expected. Its strong limb went past Tyrion's curled form and collided with the metal restrains of the cell. The strike fell deafening and heavy. The iron bent under the pressure, submissively accepting the deformation. Another blow and the grid went flying.

The beast slouched out, more like a snake than a dragon. Tyrion was left forgotten within the grasp of the cell, and Oberyn trusted him to have the wit to run. The Dornish Prince lashed the torch at the dragon, and, against all reason, the brute drew back away from the flames. The irony was overwhelming, yet Oberyn decided against gambling with his life by pushing his luck any further. He hurled the torch at the dragon, not really caring if he'd land it where he aimed. Flames danced over flaky skin. Shimmering across the dragon's spine and head, the fire looked like a golden crown.

Unaffected by the heat, the dragon lunged forward in an insane throe. The dagger was already flashing in Oberyn's hand. He dashed sideways, out of the wight's way. He evaded the deadly hits with skill and grace. The moment he saw an opportunity, he didn't hesitate to let his blade engage in a forceful, clanging impact with the hard scales covering the dragon's back.

Metal scintillation empurpled the dark room, sparks jumping wildly. Oberyn was out of the dragon's field of vision, or so he thought. He swinged his short blade once more, determined that this time it would penetrate. The studded tail came out of nowhere, smacked Oberyn across the forehead and, in turn, sent him to nowhere. Dark spots flaked before his eyes. The blow took him flying, and before he realized he had landed flat on his back, a crushing weight was brought down on his body.

Oberyn saw teeth and smelled death.

Then he heard Tyrion's unmistakable roar, and the weight was lifted from his body. He lifted himself up on his elbows, and tilted his head sideways.

There he was, Tyrion the Imp, the very dread of Tywin Lannister, the monstrous slayer of King Joffrey— throwing stones and curses at an irritated dragon to save the life of a Martellish Prince. The brute growled lowly as a piece of mud squashed in its yellow eye. Its snarls turned to subdued coughs. A mixture of dense steam and smouldering ashes cascaded out from its throat. It howled and coughed more fire fragments, looking more sickly than fearsome.

A realization suddenly hit Oberyn. _It can't breathe fire._

The beast did not move to attack Tyrion, but Oberyn had no time to reason why. The dragon had its back turned to him, and he planned not to waste a moment. He sprang on his feet and sprinted forth in an attempt to pierce the soft, husk-free flesh just where the spine of the dragon met its skull. Oberyn knew he had failed miserably when the beast lazily swung its wing.

It swept him like an old rag, and he was really starting to wonder if the beast had an additional pair of eyes located somewhere he couldn't quite pinpoint. He had somehow tumbled next to Tyrion, who regarded him with fear and expectation. Oberyn felt like he was protecting an infant, which only served to fuel his obligation to remain strong and collected. He stood up and waved the blade at the dragon, which had fallen suspiciously still. Oberyn forced a grin on his face.

"Scatter, Lord Tyrion, and I will forget about your pathetic performance with those stones."

"Scatter I would, but the moment I set foot out of this dungeon, my throat is to be sliced before I get the chace to piss myself."

"If you don't run, your throat will be separated from your body, along with the rest of your head."

"But at least I'll have plenty of time to piss myself."

Oberyn decided to save the wrangle for later. He just positioned himself between Tyrion and the dragon, tensed and ready to pierce, slice, claw, bite and kill. He felt his foot colliding with something hard and stepped away. Somehow, the round, copper necklace that had resided inside the dragon's jaw had found its way down to the mud. Tyrion immediately lunged forward, grabbing and squeezing it with an affection suited for a bloody mistress. It dangled in his hand, hypnotically slowly swaying back and forth.

The dragon advanced, but gave out a meek, submissive sound when the tip of Oberyn's blade skimmed forward to cross its path.

Oberyn backed away towards the stairs, sly and careful. He pushed Tyrion back as well, shielding him with his body. The stubborn dwarf, however, dug his soles into the ground, refusing to be dragged along. Oberyn gave him a confused look.

"You might want to go now, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion seemed equally horrified and bewildered. "I don't think that would be necessary."

Tyrion advanced, one hand firmly holding the jewel, the other resting at his side. Then he reached out that tiny, trembling hand. The dragon shoved its snout into the dwarfish palm; and licked it.

* * *

**The timeline of this story is getting a bit messy, and I don't think I could justify my choice of presenting events in such a scattered manner. Just to clear it up: this chapter and its predecessor take place the day before chapter I. Next chapter is going back to the future, ridiculous as it may sound. Many thanks to all who reviewed, faved, followed or simply chose to read so far. The support is very much appreciated. **


	4. Cersei I

'

Chapter IV

**What is Worse than Joffrey**

* * *

Cersei

* * *

_Present_

The story was no less ridiculous than its teller. Cersei was just wondering how her father had fallen so low as to buy whatever cheap nonsense that creature had to sell. A mocking smile graced her features. "The moment I admit I have lost wit will be the moment I believe this worm has got a dragon."

To her exasperation, Tyrion just smiled sadly and shook his head, and Jaime coughed tactfully. No one was taking her seriously yet again. Because she was a woman, because all men considered her to be beneath them. Being the queen meant little when she could so easily be treated like an unversed infant. This, this was as high as a woman could ascend and still she could be mocked, her words and accusations dismissed like they were a pile of dust. Cersei had never hated being a woman more.

Her father's stern gaze was trying to level her with the ground. _Little does he know, it takes more than an arched eyebrow to have me trembling. _

"Your sarcastic tone is not appreciated," Tywin Lannister said icily. "The beast is as real as the crown upon your son's head."

Cersei's heart twisted as the images of Joffrey and Tommen mixed together in the web of the word _son_. And now the lech responsible for the death of the first and the forthcoming hardships of the latter sat smugly in a chair across the room, clearly with no intention of being mortified any time soon. Pain quickly turned to wrath. It made her want to toss herself at him and bite the grin right off his miscreated face.

Cersei laughed. An artificial, tuneless sound. "This is ridiculous. A Targaryen girl on the edge of the world breathes fear in the hearts of her enemies with a handful of baby dragons, so that little leech of ours decides to stage a daunt of his own. Only he has no dragon."

"Denying the circumstances does not serve to make them any easier to comprehend," Tywin said stonily. "The truth is not always what we favor, but it is truth regardless."

"Apparently, all kinds of truths slip by unquestioned here at court. Sometimes, father, the line between 'truth' and 'convenience' is rather blurred."

"Enough," Tywin hissed, his cool demeanor heating dangerously. Cersei couldn't care any less.

"Word is, there are lizards in the pits beneath the city. Giant enough to swallow a man, they say. It would be no surprise if Tyrion has tried to disguise one as—"

"I will hear no more superstitious talk," her father cut her off, disdain engraved on his face. "You ask for trust, for titles and for lands to rival those of a man, and yet here you stand, speaking like a common peasant girl. You shouldn't even dare call yourself Queen-Regent."

His words burned deep under her skin, their blazing tongues licking all the places where it stung the most. Cersei's wrath boiled behind her flaming cheeks, but she bit her tongue and kept on screaming at her father only through her eyes.

"Well then," Tyrion's voice tore through her ears, "now that we have put this entire unpleasantness behind us, I strongly recommend we held a feast for our grand reunion. I would gladly raise a cup in honor of the great Lannister name."

Cersei's open palm collided harshly with the wooden surface of her father's desk. "Make that creature shut his mouth."

Before Tywin got a chance to respond, the little demon spoke again. "Cheer up, sister! I might even let you wear one of Lady Sansa's lovely gowns for the occasion."

Cersei's voice raised to a high-pitched, girlish scream, and she hated it for its betrayal. "I will not break bread and wine with that obnoxious dwarf!"

Tyrion winked mischievously. "If it's cum that suits you better for an evening drink, sister, then that is what we shall serve you. But, honestly, I thought you prefered to drink that straight from the bottle."

"Tyrion." Tywin's voice raised warningly.

Cersei couldn't keep her anger tamed any longer. She hated him, resented him, loathed him, wanted him dead, dead, _dead_. "Go to hell, you viscous—"

"Silence!" Their father rose from his seat, his voice dripping with authority. "There will be no feast, and there will be no quarrels." As Tywin spoke, the wild beast that writhed in Cersei's chest was caged within the trap of his superior, sharp eyes. It didn't vanish, no, not even her father would never be capable of setting her hatred for Tyrion arest, but it calmed down, soothed, sustained. The room fell awkwardly silent. _Both of my brothers, united in fear of our father_, Cersei thought bitterly. _They are more cowardly than the Tyrells._

To her surprise, it was Jaime who spoke first. He had been so protective of their little brother, so meek and womanish since they had walked in the room that Cersei had nearly forgotten he was present. "We need to focus on more pressing matters, father."

Yet again, his words filled her with scorn. He didn't defend her. He didn't stand up for her honor. He only said what was expected. Her twin, her other half, her reflection— he was weak. Her reflection could not be weak, for she was not. _There was a time when I thought that I would be him, were I a man. I've been mistaken. If I were a man, I'd be my father._

"Indeed." Tywin eased himself back in his chair. "The dragon is being kept in a dungeon beneath the Red Keep. It is known that the Targaryens used to contain all kinds of beasts in there. The creature is well chained, fed and tended to..."

Cersei allowed the words to flow by, unheard and with no meaning. She distanced herself from the room, from her father, from her brothers, from her very mind. Cersei imagined being somewhere else, somewhere far away from King's Landing and the nest of lies it had become. Across the Narrow Sea, perhaps. She drifted away, thinking of a man with hair lighter than Jaime's and his violet, sparkling eyes. She pictured him forging a new throne expressly for her, a bigger, more glorious throne than the one Robert sat atop. She would sink in it, not as a queen but as a goddess. Worshipped by many, feared by all. She would burn King's Landing to the ground, thus finishing what Aerys had not been able to. Then she would reign, not only over Westeros, but over everything and anything there was to reign over. All the while having the fair haired man remain beside her, his strong arms caressing her, teaching her, guiding her into a state of pleasure and divinity.

"Cersei." Jaime's whisper shook her from her daydream, and for the very first time, Cersei found herself despising the sound of his voice.

"What is it?" she snapped, still lingering on the edge of reality.

Her brother's eyes were full of concern. _So annoying. Does he not understand I do not need his care? He thinks I am fragile like him, but he is wrong. _Jaime leaned over and murmured in her ear, "You look scattered. Are you well?"

Cersei's eyes skimmed over him. She felt her face sag in rancor. How dare he question her? "Don't touch me," she spat quietly. If Tywin was irritated, worried or moved at all, he didn't show it. He just went on, voice as diplomatic as if he was reading an edict.

"We need to discuss our course of action, now that we have that beast at hand."

"We must keep it secret until we discover more about its nature and origins," Tyrion suggested, and much to Cersei's recoil, she had to agree.

Tywin didn't seem to view things that way. "There is no such thing as 'secret' in the Red Keep." Although he didn't look her way, Cersei tensed, dug her nails into her palm and her stare into the ground. She couldn't shake off the feeling this was meant directly for her and Jaime. But Tywin couldn't know, could he? If he did, both she and Jaime would not be standing here unpunished. _He knows nothing,_ she reassured herself. _He doesn't take interest in other people's talk._ "The walls have ears," Tywin went on, "the trees spread whispers, and traitorous snakes walk in the shape of humans. A fortnight from now, our enemies will know more of the dragon than we do. If we don't reveal it to the world, someone else will do it for us, and they will be sure to present it in far less glory and far more dire than we think convenient."

As always, Tywin Lannister's reasoning proved to be made of iron. Cersei wished everyone would listen to her the way they listened to her father. _If they did, they would know I can be just as convincing, and far more pleasant to hear._

"What do you suggest we do, father?" Tyrion asked with an arched eyebrow. Cersei pictured him with his eyebrows plucked out. And his eyes too. The eyes would look good plucked out.

Tywin looked at his son with eyes that nearly sighed. "The three of you disappoint me." Cersei clutched her fist, having lost count of how many times her father had repeated those words. As if saying it again and again would make his children any better. "When I turn to dust, you will be the ones directing the world. And there will be no one to counsel you throughout your hardships."

"Yes, father," Tyrion said, lackadaisical. "But for as long as you remain a part of our noble family, we would like to have you share your wisdom with the uneducated rest of us."

_Such unabashed blarney._ Cersei wondered how much further down the Imp could swallow their father's cock before he choked on it. _I hope you do choke soon enough, you little reptile. _

"What I would have us do," Tywin said, "is openly declare the dragon our property. At the sept of Baelor, before the eyes of gods and men."

"What?" It was Jaime who spoke in this time, though Cersei shouted the same word in her mind.

"The dragon is a weapon," Tywin explained. "A deadly one. We must make sure it isn't used against us. The only way to secure it remains in our possession is by outfoxing our enemies."

"How can openly parading a beast we know nothing of possibly be clever?" Cersei asked, nearly rolling her eyes.

"Being clever does not necessarily equal lurking in the shadows and veiling your intentions in secrecy. Sometimes, guarding needlessly many secrets could work against you." Tywin's blue eyes bore holes in her at the last few words. Cersei stirred uncomfortably. "The dragon is to be revealed," Tywin went on, his eyes traveling over all his children. "If it isn't, someone will whisper its existence to the world, and we will find ourselves in a very uncomfortable position attempting to explain ourselves out of hiding a monster. So we shall announce it ours. And Tyrion is to be proclaimed its master."

Cersei's jaw went slack. She shook in disbelief, barely registering Jaime's distant gasp. Not only had the dwarf crawled his way to freedom, he would now gain a position as high as heavens went. Why, _why_? This couldn't be happening. This, this was a nightmare come alive. From the moment she had walked into her father's chambers, it had been one disaster after another. Her entire world had crumbled around her in but a few minutes. Cersei felt shattered, violated, blood-thirsty. If Jaime refused to do it, she would. She would kill Tyrion. One way or another.

When she spoke, her voice was steady and controlled, not in the slightest indicating the odious magma that was boiling underneath her fair skin. "And on what ground is that, father?"

"Tyrion was the one who discovered the dragon. It will serve to encourage people into believing we can control the creature, wield it as our finest sword. We shall hold a ceremony, as I already said. And we must do all within our power to convince the witnesses that Tyrion and the beast share a sacred bond."

_The ceremony_, Cersei thought, the plan already blooming in her mind. _Tyrion's salesword, Bronn. He has already abandoned my brother and chosen to obey me. I will have him attack me, and when he is stopped, Tyrion will get accused of intending my murder. There is plenty of motive, and everybody thinks the hireling is still loyal to my brother. No one will question the crime, they will only count the days until Tyrion's execution._

Cersei knew she had to subdue her wrath today if she was to succeed tomorrow. She did her best to speak calmly, but in order not to arise suspicion, she entangled a thread of anger in her voice. "I assume you would have us all attend."

It wasn't a question, but her father nodded all the same. "Tyrion will be given an appropriate title, one of great sounding and small meaning."

Cersei fluttered her eyelashes, letting each Lannister present interpret her gesture as he pleased. "Which title is that?"

"It must be something lavish, rich, authentic. As long as it strikes fear and respect and revolves around the beast and our family name, we could accept anything you choose yourself, Tyrion."

_The family name_, Cersei thought. _Isn't it always about the family name... _She nearly laughed at the ease with which her father told lie atop another to maintain the glamorous appearance.

Tyrion seemed deep in thought, and saddened. "Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. The Halfman. The Demon Monkey. The Kingslayer. I admit all these do lack something..." Cersei didn't know what they were lacking, but she knew that whoever had called her brother Demon Monkey she would make the grandest lord. "I feel very uncomfortable with having to choose my own nickname," Tyrion continued. "These things usually come out naturally. When they are sincere, that is." His sparkling eyes shot Cersei a knowing glare. "Perhaps you would help me pick a sincere name, sister?"

Cersei bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. A thousand of names immediately whirled in her mind. Gnome. Reek. Worm. Death. If she chose to share them, however, she would suffer under her father's disapproving gaze. If she chose to remain silent, she would look defeated. If she chose to actually suggest a glorying name, she would be praising the murderer of her son and mother. She contemplated her grim options, silent as the night.

"The Dragon Songster of the West." It was Jaime who came to her rescue, his proffer coming out subdued yet elegant. For a second there, Cersei's heart screamed that it was her shining knight that stood beside her and not a weak-willed cripple.

Both Tyrion and Tywin nodded in agreement. "Sounds legit enough," the Imp concluded. _The only legit appellation for you is Twat, _Cersei couldn't help but muse.

Tywin rose from his seat, indicating that the gathering was headed to an end. "You will also need a name for that beast. Utterly pointless as it is, we live in times when everything should either have a name or go forgotten over a decade."

"I will be sure to think of something appropriate," Tyrion said. "And while we are still on the subject, how much time exactly do I have to think?"

The elder lion almost smiled. "Until tomorrow's dawn. That is when we will bare the dragon for all the realm to see."

"Tomorrow?" Cersei shrieked before she got the chance to restrain herself. Once the words had started flowing, she found herself in lack of power to contain them. "Joffrey's remains are still residing in the sept of Baelor. They are to stay there for another three days before they receive any further treatment."

"They will receive their further treatment tonight," her father informed her ruthlessly. "And come morning, they will be resting elsewhere."

"No! It is our custom to give due time to honor the dead. Every decent man in the realm gets to be respected in such way after their passing. Are you saying you are going to rob your very king from his final right?"

"Former king," Tywin corrected. "And letting him rot there a few more days will certainly not bring him back to life."

She hated her father, because he always had to be right, so right. He was right even when he was doing something wrong. "There are other septs to hold your ceremony," she tried again.

"But none of them can match the magnificence of the sept of Baelor."

"My son deserves all the magnificence a sept can offer! He deserves it more than a thousand dragons and a thousand wicked dwarves."

Tyrion hopped off his chair and dignified her with a deformed grimace. "Your son was a cruel monarch and a fool. How much more honor do you think he deserves than a deplorable halfling?"

"You hold your tongue," Cersei growled. "I sent you to a dungeon once. What makes you think I cannot do it again?"

"Do not provoke each other," Tywin spoke up.

"I am not provoking," Cersei shot back. "I am simply telling my brother that if he doesn't push the ceremony back, I will personally see to it that the lying whore he still cares about gets served as the dragon's dish tomorrow morning. She has already been proven to give false testimony at a king's trial. How big a push do you think it shall require for her to be sent to a deserved punishment?"

She could practically feel Tyrion bristle. "You've already meddled enough. Leave Shae out of this."

"Then do as I bid and push the ceremony back."

"It isn't for me to decide, you blind woman!"

"But your whore's life sure is for me to decide."

"Alright, Cersei, let me put it this way. If you are so sure I killed your firstborn bastard, then what makes you think I won't do the same to your second one?"

Cersei took a step forth, ready to claw his eyes out. Her father's icy hiss was all that stopped her. "For each ill word the two of you speak to one another from this moment on, I will have you lashed in public."

A cold tremor ran up Cersei's spine. Never had their father resorted to actual physical threats. Never. _I'm a lioness,_ she told herself, _I cannot be afraid_. But she was. She imagined the sharp tongue of the lash lick her back in a kiss of ice and fire. Oh, yes, she was afraid. Not of pain, no, pain had been her companion since she was born. She feared the stares of the many people, all the people that had worshipped her throughout her queenly years. She could see them already. Some were pitying her, some were disgusted by her, some were laughing at her. All of them no longer worshipped her.

Her father's words seemed to have a similar effect on Tyrion. He reluctantly averted his gaze, eyes growing softer. The effort with which Cersei forced her next words out was almost too painful to bear. "It is not within your power to delay the ceremony," she began, and she felt like she was chewing ashes, like each word she uttered was obscene. "I understand that. But my son deserves no less than any of his predecessor in the eyes of the people, and before the Seven. As his mother, it is my duty to secure his proper departure from this world."

Tyrion fell silent. So silent that Cersei imagined having ripped his tongue out. Sweet picture. Almost as sweet as his beheading would have been. "Joffrey," her little brother said suddenly. Cersei looked at him, confusion written on her face.

"What?"

"Joffrey," the Imp repeated.

"I happen to remember the name of my son."

"But you didn't happen to know the name of my dragon."

Cersei's eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again. "_What?_"

"Oh, yes," Tyrion nodded enthusiastically. "Joffrey— the Dragon of the West. There is music to it. I find it perfectly suitable— in an impossibly uncomfortable way. Let us pray to the gods that the creature be gifted with your late son's unrelenting spirit and unbreakable desire to gore things for the fun of it. One day, I hope, we shall all have the honor of watching as Joffrey rains down fire and ashes atop of our enemies, makes men piss themselves as whores worship their private swords in brothels." Tyrion paused, seemingly taking something into consideration. "They can call him Joffrey The Whore Choker."

Cersei couldn't quite believe how with a simple four sentences, the Imp had managed to set aflame the thousand chains that bound her anger still. _How dare he insult my Joffrey? He's envious, that little spiteful creature, because my son was always more fierce and handsome than the dwarf could ever hope to be, and whores came to him willingly. _She wanted to yell, she wanted to kill. Right now, she settled for playing what she played best. The game of pain. "How very admirable, brother, that you dedicate your time to making jokes about your whores. I have come to notice that it usually goes the other way around. Especially the joke of your last slattern..." Tyrion stirred and Cersei licked her lips like a snake. "I'll remember it for years, my darling little brother."

"_Don't._" Tyrion's voice was all steel and all fire.

"Alright, that is enough for today," Tywin announced before Cersei got the chance to celebrate her victory with an inner fit of laughter. "You have all been informed of everything you need to know. As for the name of the dragon, Tyrion, you can choose whatever you see fit, as long as decency permits it."

_He's giving him such freedom. Too much freedom. He's never given **me** a choice on any matter, no matter how small._ Cersei's face reddened with envy. Tyrion was a misshapen slug, a traitorous one nevertheless, and yet he was given more freedom than she'd ever known. Only because he had a hideous little obscenity between his legs. _Damn men and their understanding of this world._

"I assume it's time to bide farewell," Tyrion said, "For today, the very least. A shame, isn't it? It would have been a lovely day to see me dead, no, sister?"

Cersei's eyes were clouds, her words— a rain of poison. "Where are you trying to go with this?"

"Nowhere I haven't been before, sister."

_Mooncalf. _"How very generous of you to claim redemption, then."

"How very gracious of you to accept it."

_High-fed lech._ "Well, it is always good to have your fresh, youthful suggestions here at court."

"And it is always good to have your ripe ear here at father's chambers."

_The only ripe thing of me you'll come to know is the fruit I'll garnish your roasted head with._ "That is so very touching to hear."

The silence was so thick that Cersei suspected she could stab it with a fork. At least their father's anger had been set at ease. One beast less to worry about. A mere thousand more left. She headed for the secure embrace of the wooden doors. It wasn't like her devilish brother would live to call his beast Joffrey for much longer. She was already in the corridor when she heard her twin brother speak, voice no higher than a whisper.

"Father, about the agreement we used to have..." Jaime's voice trailed off, as though scattered in a wind of unspoken words.

"You are _not_ going to back away from it," her father said firmly, almost as firmly as he had sworn his threat to her and Tyrion.

Cersei didn't understand what they were talking about, but she didn't like the sound of it. She stepped backwards, back into the room she had so desperately yearned to leave a mere few seconds ago. Tyrion regarded Jaime and Tywin with a cautious look. A knowing look. Cersei realized she was the only person in the room to be swimming in oblivion. "What are you two speaking of?"

All three blonde heads turned to her at once. Two pairs of grass-green eyes and two cross-eyed pools of undefined color, chained to her. Jaime's face twisted in something she couldn't quite put a name to. He then looked at his father, eyes begging, jaw slack. Cersei knew those eyes. They were hers. They were filled with guilt and pain and said 'don't tell her'.

Their father had no mercy. "It is past time your sister knew."

"Don't," Jaime breathed, eyes flaming. His voice was stronger then, "I will never do it, so you can spare us the talk of something that won't come to be."

Cersei's eyes narrowed, and she glided forth like a hungry reptile. "What will never come to be?"

"Your brother," Tywin Lannister began, "is to leave the white cloak behind and finally contribute to the future of our family."

"Contribute?" Cersei knew what she would hear, but she refused to let it touch her ears. _I'm blind and deaf, and that's a lie. _

"It is your brother's duty to take a wife and make her children, true Lannister children that shall embody the legacy of our family."

Cersei's heart was slowly pooling with blackness. _True Lannister children... My children mean nothing to him, just a tool he has devised to dig his claws into the crown. It doesn't matter how many of them he would have to sacrifice. He thinks he can always have me make more for him. That is all I am— an empty, nameless cow whose only duty is to be filled with the children of whatever man he thinks convenient._ And it made her swell with anger, for her children were more Lannisters than any noble harlot would ever give her brother. Not only was her father a hypocrite, but he was also damned blind.

As for Jaime stepping into marriage— she didn't know what their father had been fantasizing, but he'd have to fantasize some more. "Jaime will never leave the Kingsguard," she said confidently. "His duty is for life."

"So was the duty of Barristan Selmy," Tywin pointed out. "And that didn't stop you from sending him away."

"This is different," Cersei countered. "Jaime is still a formidable warrior who is perfectly capable of protecting the king—"

"Your brother is a childless cripple that grows older and older as we speak." _Less childless than you think he is, father._ "Besides, he was the one who suggested the course of action."

Cersei froze from the inside out. Had she heard correctly? _Jaime would never do this, he would never abandon me._ Yet he had abandoned her before. When he had left King's Landing to search for Tyrion after his quarrel with Ned Stark. He had lost himself within the shadows of the North, leaving her to bathe in ashes of loneliness. And even after he'd come back, he'd turned his back on her, again— for the sake of their brother. Had she truly never come first in his heart? A muffled demand for further explanation was all that came out of her benumbed lips.

"On the day of Tyrion's trial, Jaime came to me, requesting that I spare your brother's life, and in exchange— get to marry him to a woman I see fit and make him Lord of Casterly Rock."

"The arrangement is off," Jaime growled, voice trembling on the edge of loath. "Tyrion was not freed—"

"He is freed now," Tywin cut him off. "That means you still get to keep your part of the agreement. I already have a few noble women in mind that might meet our suit."

"No," Jaime shook his head. "I won't do it. I won't—"

"Is it true?" Cersei interrupted sharply. Her voice was twisting on the verge of darkness, for she knew the answer long before she posed the question. Jaime's face seemed to peel off, leaving behind only the raw, brutal markings of guilt.

At that moment, Cersei Lannister knew two things: first— her two brothers were as good as dead for her, and second— she would be marrying Loras Tyrell or some other renowned lord, or even Moon Boy himself if it meant jabbing Jaime's heart out.

Tyrion whistled, care-free. "It's nothing you didn't have coming, sister."

At these words, Cersei's fragile self-composure shattered with a devastating, ear-tearing _crack_. Tyrion had murdered her son, as promised. Her father had allowed him to be off with it, even rewarded him with titles and a damned dragon. And her Jaime. Her Jaime. Her _own_ Jaime. He had traded her for the safety of their mother's murderer. First she felt the bitter kiss of betrayal, then the sharpened claws of jealousy, then the poisonous feathers of revenge. What she felt then could never be described as one thing. She felt nothing, yet she felt everything she'd ever felt. And she felt a tiny bit of something she had never felt before— the absolute confidence that she would, one way or another, bring down the three people that were now standing in her presence. Every single one of them would burn in hell.

The Others could take her master plan to keep low profile. The Others could take her father's threats. She called her little brother a cunt, her father a half-wit, her former lover a jester. Then she strode out of the room, away from the hell they would later name the great Lannister family reunion.

* * *

**Thank you for the support. I hope the story lives up to everybody's expectations, various and colorful as they might be. **


	5. Jaime II

'

Chapter V

**The Brother She Deserves**

* * *

Jaime

* * *

Guilt was surging through him, mixed with the worms of anger and those terrible, terrible leeches of helplessness. Oh, did his sister like to make things complicated.

Cersei strode away, but Jaime was certain that his father's chambers would remember the smell of her recoil for days to come. He just watched with a sinking heart as she nearly brought down the wooden door on her way out. He'd usually find solace in the thought of later comforting her, be it through wording or through touching, but right now, he doubted she would be willing to treat him any better than she would the Moon Boy.

It was one of those rare moments, which, in fact, were starting to become less and less rare by the day, that Jaime Lannister had no idea what to do with his sweet wicked sister and her troubled heart.

It was Tyrion's jolly voice that tore him from his thoughts. "Well, that didn't go as well as we could have hoped." His fat little fingers pattered without purpose against the arm of a chair that was way too big for his modest sizes.

"She won't let this pass by," Jaime warned, suddenly realizing he'd have trouble keeping his hoarse voice from giving out the wretched state of his interior.

"Not quietly, at least." Tyrion grinned, and Jaime felt like smacking him across the face. "Always so loud, our Cersei. So full of spirit to fight the most pointless of battles."

"You are going to silence her," Tywin Lannister announced. His father hadn't said anything for quite a while, though Jaime had long since learned not to make the foul mistake of forgetting that the man was present. No, he was always there, the silent, imminent cloud that hung over them all, mercilessly, unconditionally. They all lived in his shadow, most of them not knowing it until too late.

His current words, however, could easily pass for the most irrelevant thing Tywin Lannister had ever said.

Despite himself, Jaime forced a half-grin on his scarred face, and he saw his brother mirror the grimace. Although he was no less wise than any sage, in the end of all ends, Tywin Lannister knew nothing of his children, and it made him naïve in the most embarrassing of ways. To silence Cersei was as easy a task as to rip your own tongue out with red-hot pincers. And if their father thought she feared the lash, or that she gave two shits about the well-being of his masterfully webbed schemes and his carefully nursed heritage, then he was a fool as hopeless as the Mad King.

When their eyes met, Jaime knew that Tyrion had the exact same thoughts going on through his golden impish head. "I'm afraid I might need to strangle our sweet sister for that matter," his little brother pointed out unabashed, "And I'm not convinced that this is what you ask of me. Seeing as she, in a vivid, very inappropriate way, just made her feelings towards my beloved brother clear as well, I doubt he would be up for the task either."

Jaime could already tell where this was going. Both he and Tyrion looked insistently at their father. Tywin Lannister arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"I believe it best suited for _you_ to deal with the foolish, pretty golden hell that you just unleashed on us, father," Tyrion declared, "I may have provoked our beast of a sister, and news of Jaime's marriage may have uncorded her tongue, but no one has ever been better at silencing her than you."

Tywin scowled gracefully, ridiculous as it may sound. "Careful, now. Bear in mind that I could still call on sir Ilyn and have you executed."

"Oh, I know you wish it so, to finally be rid of the one thing staining your beautiful legacy." _The dungeons have made him bitter_. "Yet here I stand, alive and well, your one and only heir, waiting for you to rest a crown upon my head. How did you let it come to this, father?"

"You're not my only heir, in case you have forgotten. Your brother Jaime will marry and will have sons to call themselves my true born grandchildren."

"Oh, you blind old man!" Tyrion all but exclaimed, "You already have your golden grandchildren, truer grandchildren than you've ever bargained for."

Jaime coughed, alarmed at the ease with wich the sentence had slipped from his brother's distorted lips. "Tyrion..."

Tyrion was clearly in no mood to be having any of it. "Yes, it's true. Sorry, father. My brother wants to wed my sister."

Tywin Lannister's hand threatened to hit the table. The wood seemed to shrink from just the prospect of colliding with his iron fist. Their father rose, an angered titan ready to murder the world. "Watch your tongue, you hideous, vile creature! Out of my chambers! Go contemplate on how the gods have shamed me by forcing me to let you live another day."

Tyrion walked out, and though he didn't have the luxury of saying the final word, he left victorious. Tywin leaned back in his seat, and Jaime suddenly felt way too exposed and way to alone under his critic eye. It was ludicrous, it was _wrong_, but he felt like Cersei and Tyrion had abandoned him, fled their father's chambers with their tails curled between their legs, left him all forlorn and single-handed in the den of the elder lion. When Tywin spoke, his voice was stern and danced on the edge of danger. "And you will stay quiet and do as you are told."

Jaime knew he wouldn't, and he told his father so without a hint of hesitation. He would not betray his vows and oaths and what little honor he had left. That's what he told himself, the very least, when in fact he all too well knew that the only thing he'd never turn his back on was Cersei.

"You are my son. You will do I command you."

"I will not."

"Yes, you will."

"I don't want to be released from my knightly oath. I don't want to be your heir, I don't want your Casterly Rock, I don't want to be your golden son. I am going to stay in the Kingsguard, near my king, where I belong."

"Your son will have plenty of protection once you depart."

Shock cut through him like a honed scimitar. His _son_. No. Seven hells, _no_. This wasn't happening.

"My... nephew..."

"Enough," Tywin hissed lowly, his voice dripping with disgust, "Your sister will marry Loras Tyrell, and you will marry whoever I see fit. She will go to Highdarden, you will go to Casterly Rock, and the Seven Kingdoms will be united under the reign of king Tommen once and for all." His father was apparently familiar with the true nature of Tommen's origins, yet said _king_ without an ounce of falter. Did his father lie so fluently, or did he simply try to cover up the truth by living in denial? In either case, this was surreal.

_How long has he known?_ Was there a chance that he had simply trusted Tyrion's spiteful confession? No, preposterous. His father wouldn't throw an empty, bloodless accusation his way, not without some solid proof in disposal. How in seven hells had he found out? Had he only recently made the discovery, or had he known about it all along? Since they were infants buried in the Rock of their father, Jaime knew that he and Cersei had been way too close for decency's allowance, cuddling and touching and kissing each other in places they weren't supposed to. Had Tywin Lannister been paying more attention to his golden offspring that it seemed? Jaime was left surprised to realize he neither cared nor wished to know.

"Under _your_ reign, you mean," he growled.

"Under the reign of a lion."

_Lions. Fucking lions everywhere. _He didn't even feel like one anymore. He'd actually never felt like one. But up until that point, the fact that his sister considered herself a lioness had been enough to convince him he must be the same. After all, they had been the same, she and him; they had shared the same beginning and would share the same end; made of the same material and doomed to die as the same beings. Every time he would look at his sister, he had known he would see himself. It had always been so, since their very start.

No longer, though. Now all he saw in her was someone beautiful he didn't know.

"I won't leave the Kingsguard, and there's nothing you can do about it. And don't ever presume to claim that you know _anything_ about Tyrion or Cersei or me. You may have facts, but facts don't make the whole of knowledge."

Jaime was starting to suspect that his father was so firm on going through with this just to prove he'd be the one to come on top. But Jaime knew he'd have to disappoint. Tywin Lannister was a lion? Jaime was a kingslayer.

Then there was a long pause. His father studied him carefully, dissecting his cleanly shaved face thoroughly with the razor of his sharp gaze. "And yet I clearly know more about your sister than you do."

Jaime frowned, a sick snake crawling up his stomach. "What's that supposed to mean?"

His father kept the mask of coldness attached to his face all the way through the terrible blizzard of words that came flying out of his mouth. "What it is supposed to mean is that you are obviously unaware of your sister's extramarital activities, activities that don't involve you."

He said it so lightly, as if he was informing him there'd come a raven for him bearing an insignificant message.

Jaime opened his mouth to say something, but there were beetles buzzing in his ears, and he had no voice to lean on. He flipped on his heels and let his feet lead him stiffly out of the room. His father said no more. Or did he? Maybe he was just naming the man who'd shared his sister's bed. Who was he? Was it even _one_ man? How did Tywin know of it? How did Tywin seem to know of _everything_? Did Cersei love this man, or was she simply bored of her brother? Did it even matter? Jaime decided that it didn't, none of this.

When he shut the door, he felt like it shattered behind him with the weight of a thousand iron maces. In the antechamber, Tyrion was waiting, as if he had known all along that his brother would be joining him soon. Yes, he looked like he had known it all along.

"Is it true?" Jaime asked, voice quiet, tuneless, lifeless. Tyrion understood, and from the look he gave him, Jaime understood too. It was odd. First it was nothing. Then it was everything. His insides switched from cold to hot and an invisible tongue of fire licked his guts. Quickly, expertly and dangerously deeply. Almost perversely. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"And risk for one of you to chop my head off in a fit of love frustration?"

His way of saying _I didn't want to hurt you_, Jaime knew. A minute ago, he was willing to be dragged all the way down to hell and ruin if it meant ridding himself of the dreadful marriage hurled his way. Now he was willing to do the same, only if it meant ridding himself of all the feelings that he cradled for Cersei. It wouldn't hurt so much then. Pain would turn into an insult. Or so he hoped.

"You think that's why she's been avoiding me since I got back?"

"I don't think so. The moment you refused to behead me, you stopped being perfect brother that she wants, and it pisses the hell out of her."

"I'm no longer her ideal of a brother," Jaime confessed, partly to Tyrion, partly to himself, and it made him feel like he was swelling with imperfection, "I'm the brother she deserves."

* * *

**Yes... it's fun to have all the dirty laundry the Lannisters are hiding revealed in a mere two chapters. And Tywin knew, who knew! Tywin knows everything, muahaha! And on a sad note: with every chapter I begin to write I tell myself _this time you're gonna fix Jaime/Cersei, gal_... and every time I fail it miserably. I'm starting to think I'm some sort of a masochist, dang it. But I'll fix them, mind you! One of these days... Thanks for reading, as always. **


	6. Oberyn II

'

Chapter VI

**How Wine is Fornication**

* * *

Oberyn

* * *

As the ceremony approached, the Sept of Baelor was slowly filling with respected guests. Within a few minutes, the dragon would be brought forth, and Oberyn could not care less if it ate the whole pack of noble lickspittles. Everyone was talking lively, words like _dragon_, _legacy_ and _power_ falling from their lips a bit too freely. How quickly word had gotten around the castles that the Lannisters were hatching dragons. He had no idea how these vultures around the city knew already. Someone had divulged, apparently. Someone always did.

He had heard a woman on the streets the day before claiming that the lions had a bunch of dragon eggs being stored for their closest allies, and a man was yelling they had promised him a scaled beast in exchange for the heads of Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons, which were now referred to as 'violators of the one true dragon dynasty'.

Though Oberyn was more than sure a lion is no dragon.

The Imp was nowhere to be seen, but Oberyn could not care less if the dragon ate him either. He only cared about Gregor Clegane, who was now retreating the capital ever so conveniently. _Tywin Lannister must be wetting his pants with joy over this. _Little did the elder lion know, the Mountain would be paying for his sins rather shortly. Oberyn just needed to get in contact with his older brother. The rest was easy a task.

The lords and ladies of greater note were sitting along a narrow table that seemed to be curling down the length of the entire sept. It reminded Oberyn of the table they had placed at king Joffrey's wedding feast. He entertained the thought that this was arguably the same table, the Lannisters being in no mood for further expenses and the Tyrells being in no mood to pay for it. He smiled to himself. The day a Lannister agreed to shit in a chamber pot that wasn't made of gold would be the day the lions gave up on extravagance.

Ah, such extravagance. Ellaria was not allowed present, and even though he had insisted on bringing her along, she had refused to come, as not to insult the nobles. Oberyn was thus smuggled alone between the royal lot on the table with suspicious origins, his exact position no doubt Tywin Lannister's doing. He was seated on a chair between the still missing lord of Highgarden, and a certain golden-haired nightmare he would rather choke than break bread with. As if placing him between two fools would make him more a fool as well.

He looked at the exquisite blonde next to him, and since it was either abash her or kill her, he decided to stick with the choice that wouldn't get him killed in return.

"May I ask how long you plan on staring, my lady?"

"I'm afraid I wasn't staring at _you_, prince Oberyn," Cersei Lannister mumbled, burying her face into her golden goblet.

_You were, _Oberyn thought wolfishly, yet did nothing to respond. Silence dripped thick between them, showering them with its wet and sticky kisses. And while Oberyn felt comfortable in its coldness, he could sense that the blonde next to him was boiling in its ruthless grip. He could tell he daunted the woman. Intimidated her, the very least.

She shot him glares from behind her chalice and from underneath her furrowed brows whenever she thought he wasn't looking, but the act was not lost on him. So be it, then. He would dance the dance of stares, that breath-taking, crazed skirmish. And did he know his steps well. He even went as far as to flash her a charming smile, one of those grins that served to wet the thighs of whores in every brothel he decided to explore. The Queen regent cracked shortly after.

"You are a silent man," she half-murmured, half-growled, and stirred uncomfortably in her chair. The hair on his neck always seemed to bristle whenever she moved like that—like a reptile, like something slick and slippery and way too agile for his liking.

He tried to pin her with his gaze, but she sophisticatedly averted it, eyes sliding sideways.

"I bask in moments of silence," he confessed, studying her tight expression. "The only moments when I get to hear my own thoughts."

She looked up towards the high roofs of the hall, her golden curls dangling gingerly at her sides. Her eyes seemed sad and distant, searching and immensely tired. She was either a better pretender than he had given her credit for, or his words had actually stirred something within her. He knew he wouldn't bet against her acting skills, though. The woman was as much a serpent as he was a viper.

When she spoke, her eyes were still soaring somewhere above the ceremony awaiting to take place, perhaps beyond the restricts of the ceiling of the sept. "And what if it is just your thoughts, prince Oberyn, that you are trying to escape?"

Oberyn leaned back in his chair, taking a feral bite from a fine red apple he got offered by a passing maid. "You can't."

The lioness brought the goblet to her full lips and took a measured sip. She swallowed soundlessly and gave her chalice up for a refill. Oberyn blinked. He could swear he'd just seen the red wine swimming halfway up the mazer. Not _that_ measured a sip it had been, apparently. The woman clearly knew how to camouflage the needs of her dry throat well enough. The servant near them poured more wine, and it teemed down wildly, red like yeasty blood and thick like molten steel.

The queen took another sip.

"Must be some fine wine they serve," Oberyn commented, looking over at his glass that was waiting patiently to yet be filled. "May I ask what sort it is?"

"The finest Arbor has to offer." Her voice danced on the edge of coldness. Not a small-talk woman. Thus, Oberyn felt obliged to fuel whatever small talk he could muster for as long as humanly possible. Crawling up someone's nerve, a Lannister queen nevertheless, was as much a soulcraft to him as the swinging of a spear.

"I prefer Dornish," he said, taking his glass and regarding it in appreciation.

"I've no doubt," the Queen regent nearly sneered, voice gone dry. _Nearly_ sneered. She was just too graceful to _actually_ sneer.

Oberyn expertly flipped the glass between his slender fingers. "Still a virgin, this one. No less than the best to have her first fill." He stared the blonde down with a meaningful, alluding eye. "Any Dornish red available, Queen regent?"

Her eyes shifted wildly from place to place, and he could tell his words did not pass by without getting to her. She gripped her chair tightly when her stare landed on something across the room, a gesture she had probably hoped to go unnoticed. It didn't. These things never did. Oberyn followed the imaginary line her gaze drew, yet found nothing disturbing. Just noble lords exchanging words and laughing quietly. Ah, there was Cersei's one-handed brother, talking to a lady Oberyn had not cared to remember. The Kingslayer was grinning and the pretty thing beside him was giggling like a Myrish whore.

Cersei suddenly rose from her seat, turned to him and spoke, voice low but hinting little alarm. "None that I know of, prince Oberyn. Though I believe you should speak to those in the kitchens about the matter. You will surely find them more suitable to satisfy your curiosity, be it regarding wine, or virgins of every possible nature."

Her rather blunt approach at chasing him away came as a surprise. She was a slippery one, this woman. A queen for many years. Life should have made her accustomed to handling things more smoothly. And she usually did, he knew from experience. Something was off, and he took it upon himself to dig in deeper into the matter.

"I would be greeted by a far less royal company in the kitchens, I'm afraid," he tweeted, carefully rejecting her invitation to piss off.

"And there I thought you didn't mind spending your days entrenched in whores and low-borns and low-born whores."

"Alas, I fear the spirit of King's Landing is finally getting to me."

"And here I was, hoping you'd be the one to bring along the southern winds of change." The chaotic twitch of her fingers was not lost on him—the only gesture indicating that beneath her icy shield, the queen was a coil of angry heat.

"I had no idea you desired changing, Queen regent."

"Of course I do, as do we all. I would, in fact, like some massive changes to take place around here." _... with your royal lordship getting shipped off to hell being the first one_, her eyes all but finished the sentence for her.

"Ah, changes," he sang cheerfully, ignoring the slight discomfort her forest-green eyes were starting to cause, "Don't we all want some changes?"

"Here's the difference between us, prince Oberyn." A rare smile blossomed on her lips. One that gave out no scheming, just sickness. Sickness and sweet cruelty—her recipe for instant trouble, he was sure. "It is clear that we both want something," she went on, voice gone disturbingly kind, "but _I_ don't just _want_ things. I make them happen."

Oberyn didn't skip a heartbeat to seize the opportunity, stalk around it like a starved hawk. His lips spread in a jolly, daring grin. "I've no doubt that you do. But I'm confused as to what exactly you're referring to, saying you make things happen. You mean the way you made things happen with your brother Tyrion? Or the way you made things happen with your brother Jaime?"

With a single blow he had told her she was an incompetent plotter and a harlot fornicating with her own brother. If he were a bystander, he would have applauded the performance. The look the daughter of Tywin Lannister rewarded him with was one of ice and stone and blood and fire. Her fingers were writhing like crazed at her side, her hand resembling a spider crawling against the air.

"Now I can clearly see that you are usually a silent man for a reason," she hissed, her voice unyielding, "Whenever you unleash your tongue, you must be suffering the loss of an ally."

The smile never climbed off his face. "Silence covers many things indeed. Sometimes it is better not to touch it."

Her green orbs were burning with a flame that could bring a god to his knees. When she spoke, he could sense she barely kept her voice from raising above decency's permission. "Are you many things, my lord?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how many of the things I am you will be able to spot."

Her fingers suddenly ceased their frantic throe. Cersei Lannister smiled again, but there was no longer cruelty in her smile, no sickness and no recoil. This wasn't the rare smile he'd just witnessed. This was a smile he'd simply never seen on her before, and it left him rather puzzled. "And that depends on how many of the things you are you'll show me, prince Oberyn."

Oberyn was left to feel uneasy under the pressure of the strangely delivered words as she raised her goblet, and with but a few of those well-measured gulps that weren't really measured, the wine was almost gone. What little of its red thickness was left to swim at the bottom of her chalice Cersei regarded with a thoughtful look. For a second there, she seemed to be taking something into consideration, but hesitation retreated from her face almost too soon.

She walked towards him without warning, and he nearly grabbed her to keep her at arm's length. Seeing as half the court was around them, though, he willed himself to follow the restricts of the courtly manners, keeping his lethal hands to himself. Cersei caught him by the hand in which his cup was resting cuddled, and pulled it up then so his glass was facing hers. Her touch was everything it should not have been—alarmingly non-repulsive, radiating a steady, gentle danger, and ridiculously intimidating.

His instinct got the better of him and, for one reason or another, his hand attempted to pull away on its own accord. Her nails dug into his wrist, not deep enough to draw blood, yet firmly enough to bear marks behind. When he looked at her, he felt like he was looking at a stranger. Not the scheming daughter of Tywin Lannister, but a woman with a feral beauty. Her hair flew unruly around her, as if someone had purposely come and raked their fingers through it, and her green eyes were flickering with mischief. And a twisted smile to complete the little spectacle her face had become. She looked more the wild cat that she was than ever.

Oberyn lifted his chin, scarcely remembering to breathe, all the while thinking how absurd this entire situation was. If it were anyone else, he'd think the woman was seducing him. But this was Cersei Lannister, and he was certain she would rather pull the corpses of her impish brother and his cursed dragon between her legs than seek the pleasure of his charms. Just when he collected himself and opened his mouth for an appropriate response, the Queen regent spoke a husky question.

"Would you like the expert opinion of my royal self, prince Oberyn?"

She didn't wait for a response. She simply emptied the contents of her goblet, spilling the wine straight into his cup.

"That," she purred, caging his eyes with her own, a bizarrely tempting remnant of a smile still resting upon her lips, "is the finest you will get in this city."

She let go of his wrist and stalked away, and for the first time Oberyn's gaze lingered on the curve of her swaying hips for a bit longer than expected. As he watched her recede, his mind lingered between the shocking facts. Cersei Lannister had just served him her wine, a wine that was clearly not poisoned, seeing as she also drank from it. And, for the first time since he remembered, Oberyn Martell had actually been almost clumsy with a woman. He couldn't decide which one was more scandalous, but knew he'd keep both to himself.

Oberyn looked at his 'ruined' glass.

_For the finest virgin from the finest whore._

* * *

**Don't worry, this isn't headed where it seems it is. No, even I am not that twisted (arguably). But as you see, Oberyn will have quite the major part to play in this, so I needed to somehow tie him to the others. Not that, at this point, I myself know exactly what is going on in Cersei's wicked head. I guess we'll have to figure her out together. Anyway, thanks for reading, and make sure you stop by again. **


End file.
